Days Two and Three - Asia and An Awkward Massage

A midnight breeze floats through the window of a modest Istanbul apartment and finds me again here, missing the sounds of children and calls to prayer, but equally enchanted by the science and magic of this place. Maybe it’s the glasses of Turkish wine, or perhaps the myriad European cigarettes that have been well smoked and enjoyed, but I’m currently feeling drunk on the enjoyment of international travel.

Days two and three have come and gone. I will briefly describe them to you now, although again, my descriptions are a poor comparison to the moments in their truest form.

Yesterday I slept late, a rare occasion for a teacher in the South Bronx. Following my night of slumber cocooned on Mitch’s couch (sleeping between sheets helps reduce my adverse reactions to Drogo, Mitch’s cat, and my new best friend and allergic adversary), I trekked to a delicious breakfast with Nicole (Mitch’s beautiful girlfriend). We ordered the “Sultan’s Platter” and tasted various jams, jellies, and spreads, carefully applied to breads and consumed accompanying fresh squeezed juice and cay (chai - Turkish tea). After this, we walked to the water, where we had every intention of boarding a ferry bound for Prince’s Island. Unfortunately, the ferry schedule didn’t align with our plans for the day, so we had to call an unexpected audible. Providentially, we ran into Mary and James, a married couple of expatriates who were heading to a town in Asia (still Turkey, but a different continent), who insisted that we join them on their excursion. Walking. Introductions. Ferry ride. Asia.

On the Asian side of the Bosphorus, we walked for a bit, then stopped for drinks and conversation. I wish I could say more about my fourth continent of exploration, but really I saw very little of it. Instead, I drank Efes (Turkish beer) with four new people (Nicole, Kayla, James, Mary) and allowed myself to be taken by the conversation and was apathetic toward the sights to be seen. We returned to Istanbul, frequented a new bar of choice, then returned to Bar-ish, the evening home of the English teachers of Turkey.

Today, I decided I was going to be proactive once again. After sleeping in (again) and breakfast with Nicole (again) I ventured on my own. I hiked across the city to the Grand Bazaar, a complex of indoor shops that is incomparable to any mall in the United States. Each “street” of the Bazaar is filled with similar vendors, offering merchandise of gold, scarves, sweets, trinkets and anything else you can imagine. Outside of the shops stand their Turkish owners, sometimes seemingly indifferent and thoroughly European, other times appearing pathetically eager to have your business. Countless tourists and townies move amongst the avenues of goods, and you can hear the mixed languages of Turkish, Spanish, French, and English if you stop and listen closely. I bought very little (a magnet), but enjoyed very much, and strongly recommend it to any new visitor to the city.

From there, I walked back to the Bosphorus, allowing myself to entertain the streets winding mystery and often thinking that, “Not all those that wander are lost.” I came upon the Spice Bazaar, almost a cousin to the Grand Bazaar, and purchased figs, then enjoyed them as I wandered a bit more.

After crossing the Bosphorus via the Galata Bridge, where overcast skies seemed to hinder the presence of entrepreneurial fishermen, I walked a few hills to reach the Galata Tower, a 12 lira tourist destination offering immaculate views of the city. At the top, I took pictures using my skills as a self-photographer, then ordered Turkish coffee, snapped a few more photos and was off again.

Turkish coffee in the Galata Tower. 

This is where things got weird. Well – sort of. One of the unique experiences recommended by my book about Istanbul (in a chapter titled, “Unique Experiences”) is a Turkish Bath. Having read up on it briefly, I decided it was something I shouldn’t miss. I asked a gentleman at the Galata Tower where one might receive “Hamam” (Turkish Bath) and he directed me to Kortakoy. After finding no Hamami (Turkish Bath-eries) in Kortakoy, I returned to Taksim (where Mitch lives) and waltzed into a hotel there. At the hotel, I was re-directed to the Tarihi Galatasaray Hamami, a structure constructed in 1481 by Sultan Beyazit that has been serving men and women desiring relaxation ever since. Although the price was a bit steep (105 lira – approximately $60), I knew it would be worth it. And while slightly uncomfortable, the experience was well worth the price.

First, you are taken to small, bedroom-like structure where you remove all of your clothes, all of them, and in their stead, adorn yourself in a thin sheet of cloth. Returning to the main lobby (where other men and women are purchasing their bathing package), you are guided into a shower room. You immediately become engulfed in the heavy, warming moisture. After a 5-minute wait, sweat beginning to trickle from your pores, you transfer into the bathing room, where the heat intensifies. As an American, I would compare this to a sauna, but not quite. Above you, the wall flickers with color, an ambient music echoes around the corridor, and half-naked, sometimes fully naked, men are strewn about the tiled floors. You are given a space to yourself, where you lie on your back, breathe and try your best to think peaceful thoughts. After 20 minutes of sweating, your pores now faucets, a Turkish gentlemen requests you to move to a new area of the room (the center of the lodge), a stage-like, heated rock structure. While laying down, your faucets of sweat turn to fire hoses, the sweat begins to burn your eyes, but the peace remaining. Finally, after another 10 minutes, the massage and bath begin. This is where it gets weird. I don’t know his name, but a 250-pound Turkish man began to massage my torso, arms and legs with a lathery soap. By legs, I don’t just mean from my ankle to my knee – no, he allowed his hands to roam all the way up to my inner thigh – and it wasn’t the gentle touch of an acquaintance, it was the forceful, commanding hands of a Turkish masseuse. With a mix of pain and pleasure, although more the former, I endured a Turkish massage that reminded me of “arm bender”, a game my brother would play when I was younger in which he bent my exposed limb as far behind my back as possible, before I cried in terror for help. The massage lasted about 5 minutes; I was then moved to a new area of the room. Here, Mr. Unknown doused me in warm water, lathered me with soap, and, with a rough oven mit of a glove that felt like it was laced with steel wool, began to scape an ungodly amount of dead skin off of my body. I’m not sure how he felt, but I was thoroughly embarrassed by the amount of excess skin that I had ignorantly accumulated on my body. More washing. More awkward lathering of near-scrotal regions. Finally, it was over. At the conclusion of the bath, you are taken to the initial shower room, where you stand under cold water, then are given a warm towel, a cup of tea, and an explanation that Mr. Unknown really doesn’t have feelings for you; he is just doing his job.

Although I describe it with mixed emotions of shame and amusement, it really was an incredible experience that (I think) I enjoyed. I walked out from the Hamami, smoked a cigarette, and met up with Mitch at Bar-ish. We met a few more expat’s, then headed home to plan our upcoming trip to Capadoccia.

It goes without saying that I am enjoying my time in Turkey immensely – I can only hope that my descriptions of my adventures are as entertaining as I perceive them to be. I will let you know how our time in Capadoccia is, but in the meantime, enjoy your life – it is wholly yours to live.

Love always,

Josh